# The White Sword Tower - Jaime's Chambers
Hours later, Jaime sat at his small desk, unable to sleep despite the late hour.
He thought about Cersei's words. About the five children who all called her mother. About his complicated role in their lives.
Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen were his by blood. His children. But he could never claim them, never discipline them properly, never be the father they needed. He could only watch from the sidelines as Joffrey grew crueler, as Myrcella learned to navigate court politics too young, as Tommen entered a world that would try to break his gentle nature.
But Hadrian and Perseus...
They were Robert's sons. Truly, legitimately Robert's. The dark hair proved it, the coloring that bred true in Baratheons. They had none of Jaime's blood.
And yet he loved them fiercely.
Maybe because loving them was safe. He could openly show affection for his king's heirs without raising suspicion. Could train them, teach them, protect them without anyone questioning his motives.
Or maybe he loved them because they were what Joffrey could never be—legitimate heirs, protected by law and blood, free to inherit without the sword of bastardy hanging over their heads.
Or maybe, Jaime thought with painful honesty, he loved them because they were *better* than Joffrey. Smarter, kinder, more worthy of the throne they'd inherit.
That was a terrible thought for a father to have. But it was true.
Joffrey was his son by blood, but the boy was cruel. Vindictive. Growing worse every day despite Cersei's desperate attempts to mold him into something worthy. Jaime saw himself in Joffrey sometimes—the arrogance, the sense of being above consequence. But where Jaime had been tempered by Arthur Dayne's mentorship and the weight of his vows, Joffrey had only Cersei's doting and Robert's neglect.
The boy was becoming a monster. Jaime could see it. Everyone could see it except Cersei, who loved too blindly to see clearly.
But Hadrian and Perseus were different. They had Robert's legitimate blood, yes, but they were also just... *good*. Brilliant and strange and too old for their years, but fundamentally decent in ways that Joffrey wasn't.
They would be better kings than Joffrey could ever be.
And that knowledge sat like a stone in Jaime's chest, because what did it say about him that he preferred his king's sons to his own?
He picked up his quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write—not a letter to be sent, but words that needed to be put down somewhere, even if only he would ever read them.
*I have three children by blood. Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen. Golden and beautiful and mine in every way except the one that matters. I can never claim them. Never acknowledge them. Never be the father they need.*
*But I have two nephews by law. Hadrian and Perseus. Dark-haired sons of my king and my sister. Robert's legitimate heirs. Not mine by blood. Not mine by any right.*
*And yet I love them like they are mine.*
*I love them because they're everything Joffrey should be and isn't. I love them because they're legitimate and safe in ways my true children never will be. I love them because they're brilliant and kind and the realm's best hope.*
*I love them because loving them doesn't hurt the way loving Joffrey does. Because with them, I can be a proper uncle. Can train them, teach them, guide them without hiding what I feel.*
*I love them because they're the sons I can acknowledge.*
*And I hate myself for that. Because Joffrey is my blood. My son. He deserves his father's love, not his father's disappointment.*
*But I am disappointed. In him. In myself. In the choices we've all made that led us here.*
*Five children who call Cersei mother. Two are Robert's. Three are mine. All of them are trapped in a lie that will destroy them when it finally breaks.*
*And I don't know how to save any of them.*
He stared at the words for a long moment. Then he held the parchment over the candle flame and watched it burn.
Some truths were too dangerous to exist, even in private.
But they existed in his heart.
And that, Jaime knew, made him both the best and worst protector those children could have.
Because he loved them all—the legitimate princes and the bastard ones alike.
But he couldn't save them all.
And when the time came to choose, he feared what choice he would make.
---
# The Royal Nursery - Deep Night
Hadrian woke to the sound of Percy's nightmare.
His brother thrashed in his bed across the room, muttering words in ancient Greek that Hadrian's current life shouldn't understand but somehow did—remnants of Percy's previous existence bleeding through in sleep.
"Percy," Hadrian whispered, crossing to his brother's bed. "Wake up. You're dreaming."
Percy's eyes snapped open—sea-green and wild and afraid. For a moment he didn't seem to recognize where he was. Then awareness returned and he sagged back against his pillows.
"Kronos?" Hadrian guessed quietly.
"Kronos. The fall into Tartarus. The—" Percy stopped, rubbing his eyes. "I'm fine. Just a dream."
"You're not fine. You haven't been fine since Mother went into labor." Hadrian sat on the edge of Percy's bed. "What's wrong?"
Percy was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Every time someone we love is in danger, every time something big happens, I remember. I remember dying. I remember the moment I fell, when I thought I'd failed everyone, when I thought that was the end."
"But it wasn't the end."
"No. We got a second chance. A third chance, really." Percy looked at his hands—small, six-year-old hands that remembered wielding Riptide against titans. "But what if we fail again? What if we can't protect them all?"
"Them?"
"Mother. The baby. Joffrey and Myrcella." Percy's voice dropped. "Even Father, useless as he is. They're all in danger and they don't even know it. This family is built on lies, Harry. Lies that are going to explode and kill everyone when they come out."
Hadrian knew exactly what lies Percy meant. He'd been thinking about them all evening, doing the math that anyone with eyes could do if they bothered to look closely.
"You figured it out," Hadrian said quietly. Not a question.
"About Joffrey and the others? Yeah. I figured it out months ago. You?"
"Same. The coloring is too obvious once you start paying attention."
They sat in silence for a moment, two six-year-olds discussing royal bastards and treason like it was perfectly normal.
"What do we do?" Percy asked finally.
"Nothing. We can't tell anyone—it would get them all killed. Mother, Uncle Jaime, the golden children. Everyone." Hadrian's jaw set. "So we keep the secret. We protect them. And when the truth comes out—because it will eventually—we make sure we're strong enough to keep them safe."
"That's a lot of responsibility for two six-year-olds."
"We've handled worse. We've died for less important reasons." Hadrian's eyes met Percy's. "We're the only legitimate heirs, Percy. You and me. That makes us valuable. That gives us power, if we're smart about using it."
"Using our legitimacy to protect the bastards." Percy laughed bitterly. "That's twisted."
"That's family."
"Is it though? Are we really family with them? We're Robert's sons. They're—"
"They're our siblings," Hadrian interrupted firmly. "By law, by love, by the fact that we've all grown up together under the same roof. Blood alone doesn't make family. Choice makes family. And I'm choosing to protect them."
Percy studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Together, then."
"Always together."
They fell silent again, listening to the Red Keep settling around them. Down the hall, baby Tommen slept in his cradle, golden and innocent and doomed by his parentage. Joffrey slept in his own chambers, dreaming whatever cruel dreams four-year-olds had. Myrcella was probably curled up with her patched doll, safe and content.
All of them vulnerable. All of them depending on two six-year-olds who'd died twice to keep them safe.
"Harry?" Percy said quietly, using his old name.
"Yeah?"
"Do you think we were sent here to fix this? To save this family? To prevent whatever disaster is coming?"
Hadrian thought about that cosmic entity with its manic energy and talk of ice zombies and prophecies. About being told the realm needed heroes who knew what it cost to stand in the gap.
"I think," he said slowly, "we were sent here because something terrible is coming. Something bigger than family drama or royal bastards. The Long Night. The White Walkers. Whatever's beyond the Wall." He paused. "But I also think we were sent here specifically to this family. To these siblings. For a reason."
"To protect them?"
"To give them a chance. To make sure that when everything falls apart—when Father dies or the truth comes out or winter finally arrives—there's someone who knows how to fight. Someone who's died before and knows the price of failure." Hadrian looked at his brother. "We're not going to let them die, Percy. Any of them. Not if we can help it."
"Even Joffrey? Even though he's cruel and getting worse?"
"Even Joffrey. Because he's four years old and there's still time to change him. To teach him to be better." Hadrian's voice was firm. "We saved entire worlds before. We can save one bratty prince."
Percy snorted. "You've got more faith than I do."
"No. I've just got experience. I've seen people change. I've seen darkness turned to light. I've seen—" He stopped. "I've seen that people aren't born evil. They're made evil by a thousand small choices and the absence of anyone who cares enough to stop them."
"So we care enough to stop Joffrey from becoming a monster."
"And we care enough to keep the secret that would get him killed. And we care enough to protect Mother and Uncle Jaime and all the golden children from the consequences of choices they made before we were born." Hadrian's smile was wry. "We're really bad at this whole 'not being heroes' thing."
"Yeah. We really are."
They sat together in the darkness, two old souls in young bodies, making promises they had no idea how to keep.
Finally, Percy yawned. "You should go back to bed. You've got page duties tomorrow. Ser Barristan will work you to death if you're tired."
"Says the person who has to tend Uncle Jaime's horse. Honor is going to make you curry her for an hour."
"Honor likes me. She told me so."
"You realize that claiming to talk to horses makes you sound insane, right?"
"You can turn water into wine when you're emotional. We're both insane by this world's standards." Percy grinned. "At least my insanity is useful."
Hadrian laughed despite himself, then sobered. "We'll be okay, Percy. All of us. We'll make sure of it."
"Promise?"
"Promise. Cross my heart and hope to—" He stopped. "Actually, let's not tempt fate with that one. We've died enough already."
"Agreed. No more dying."
"No more dying," Hadrian echoed.
He went back to his own bed, settling under the covers. Across the room, Percy's breathing evened out into sleep.
And Hadrian lay awake, thinking about five children who shared a mother and a home but not a father. About lies that held families together and truths that would tear them apart. About promises made by people too young to understand what they were promising.
About winter, coming slow and inevitable, bringing death and darkness and ice.
They had time. Not much, but some. Time to get stronger. Time to learn. Time to prepare for all the disasters he could see looming on the horizon.
He just hoped it would be enough.
Because the alternative—failing again, watching people he cared about die because he wasn't strong enough or smart enough or fast enough—was unacceptable.
He'd been the Boy Who Lived once. He'd been the Master of Death.
Now he was just Hadrian Baratheon, six years old and terrified and determined not to fail.
Not this time.
Not ever again.
He fell asleep planning, calculating, protecting.
Just like his mother down the hall.
Just like Uncle Jaime in his tower.
Just like everyone in this family who loved too much and lied too often and fought too hard to keep impossible things alive.
Winter was coming.
But so were they.
And gods help anyone who tried to hurt their family.
Even if that family was built on lies and held together by sheer stubborn will.
It was theirs.
And they'd burn the world before they let it fall.
—
# King's Landing, 289 AC - Two Weeks Later
The Great Hall of the Red Keep had been transformed into a war room.
Maps covered every table—the Iron Islands, the Sunset Sea, the western coastline of Westeros. Wooden ships marked with various sigils were arranged in careful formations. Lords and knights filled the benches, their voices a low rumble of anticipation and strategy.
Hadrian stood behind Lord Arryn's chair, pitcher in hand, watching the organized chaos with careful attention. Across the hall, Percy served Stannis Baratheon, equally observant.
Robert sat on the throne—actually sat upright for once, not sprawled—looking more alive than he had in months. War did that to him. The prospect of battle, of doing something instead of sitting and ruling, had burned away the wine-fog and left something sharper behind.
"The fleet mobilizes in three days," Stannis announced, his voice cutting through the chatter. "We sail with the tide. The Reach has committed thirty warships, the Westerlands another forty. Combined with the royal fleet, we'll have over two hundred vessels."
"And how many do the ironborn have?" asked Lord Mace Tyrell, resplendent in green and gold, looking like he'd dressed for a tourney rather than a war council.
"Fewer," Stannis said flatly. "But their ships are faster, their crews more experienced in these waters. Numbers alone won't guarantee victory."
"Which is why we're using the prince's strategy," Jon Arryn interjected smoothly, gesturing to the map. "Naval chokepoints here and here, forcing them to engage on our terms. It's sound tactics."
Every eye in the hall turned briefly toward Hadrian and Percy.
The twins kept their expressions neutral, but Hadrian felt his stomach clench. They'd attracted enough attention already. The last thing they needed was half the realm's lords staring at them like they were curiosities.
"Yes, yes, the six-year-old military geniuses," Lord Tyrell said with barely concealed condescension. "Charming. But perhaps we should leave the actual strategy to men who've seen combat?"
"The 'six-year-old military genius' is why we have floating siege platforms being constructed right now," Stannis said coldly. "Platforms that will let us bombard Pyke from the sea. I'd take his advice over your peacock preening any day, Tyrell."
Mace Tyrell's face went red. Several lords snickered.
Robert laughed—a booming sound. "That's settled then! We use the boys' plan! If it works, we're brilliant! If it fails, we blame children and no one loses face!"
"Your Grace, perhaps we shouldn't—" Pycelle began.
"I'm joking, you old fool." Robert took a long drink from his cup—watered wine, Jon Arryn had insisted, at least during war councils. "The plan is sound. Stannis agrees. I agree. That's all that matters." He turned serious, his blue eyes sharp. "Now. Command structure. Jon, you're staying here as Hand. Managing the realm while I'm gone."
"Your Grace—" Jon started.
"No arguments. Someone needs to keep King's Landing from burning down, and it won't be my wife." Robert's tone made it clear this wasn't up for discussion. "Stannis commands the fleet. I command the ground forces once we land. Ser Barristan leads my vanguard."
"It would be my honor, Your Grace," Barristan said, bowing from where he stood in his white cloak.
"Good. Then that's—"
"What about the Kingsguard?" someone called out. "You're taking your Lord Commander into battle. Who guards the Queen and princes?"
Robert waved a dismissive hand. "Jaime stays. He's the best blade in the city anyway—if anyone's stupid enough to threaten the royal family while I'm gone, he'll gut them." He paused. "And Meryn Trant. He stays too."
Hadrian felt Percy tense across the room. They both loathed Ser Meryn Trant—a cruel, vicious man who hid his nature behind courtly manners. He was everything a knight shouldn't be, and somehow he wore the white cloak anyway.
"Two Kingsguard to protect the Queen and five royal children?" Mace Tyrell asked, frowning. "That seems insufficient."
"The Queen doesn't need protecting," Robert said. "She's in the Red Keep, surrounded by walls and guards. She'll be fine." His tone suggested he didn't particularly care either way.
Cersei, seated in the place of honor beside the throne, kept her expression perfectly neutral. But Hadrian saw her hand clench briefly in her lap.
"Besides," Robert continued, "I need fighters with me. Men who know their business. Barristan, Boros, Meryn... wait, no, Meryn stays. Damn." He thought for a moment, clearly trying to remember which Kingsguard he actually had. "Preston can come. And Arys. That leaves Jaime and Meryn for guard duty. Should be plenty."
"As you say, Your Grace," Jon Arryn said, though his tone suggested he had thoughts about this decision that he'd share privately later.
The council continued for another hour—logistics, supply lines, rules of engagement. Hadrian poured wine when directed, kept his mouth shut, and absorbed every detail.
Finally, Robert dismissed them all. "Three days! Make your preparations! And try not to die—I need you lot to help me rule this damned realm after we've dealt with these fish-fucking ironborn!"
The lords filed out, voices rising again in excited chatter. War was coming, and for men bred to fight, that was like a festival.
Hadrian and Percy were collecting the wine pitchers when Jon Arryn gestured for them to approach.
"A word, princes. In my solar."
They followed him through the corridors, familiar enough with this routine now. The solar smelled like parchment and candle wax, books lining every wall.
Jon poured himself wine—real wine this time, not the watered stuff from council—and settled behind his desk.
"You've been very quiet lately," he observed. "Both of you. No helpful suggestions at council. No impossible knowledge offered freely."
"You told us to be careful," Hadrian said. "We're being careful."
"Suspiciously careful. Like you're hiding something."
Percy shifted uncomfortably. "We're not—"
"Don't lie to me, Perseus. I'm too old and too tired for games." Jon's expression was stern but not unkind. "I know you both have thoughts about this campaign. About strategy, tactics, risks. You've been whispering together all through the council. So tell me—what are you worried about?"
Hadrian and Percy looked at each other. One of their silent conversations.
*Do we tell him?*
*He'll figure it out anyway. He always does.*
*Fine. But carefully.*
"The command structure," Hadrian said finally. "It's flawed."
Jon's eyebrows rose. "How so?"
"Father and Uncle Stannis hate each other," Percy said bluntly. "Everyone pretends they don't, but they do. Stannis resents Father for giving Storm's End to Renly. Father thinks Stannis is too rigid, too joyless. They'll argue about strategy, about tactics, about everything. And that division will cost lives."
"That's not—" Jon started, then stopped. Because it was true, and they all knew it.
"Plus," Hadrian continued, "Father wants glory. He wants to be first through the breach, first to fight, the hero who wins the war personally. That's not leadership—that's recklessness. And it will put him in danger unnecessarily."
"Your father is a great warrior—"
"Our father is a drunk who misses being young and fighting for something that mattered," Percy interrupted. "This war? It doesn't matter. Not to him, not really. The ironborn are raiders, not an existential threat. But Father's treating it like it's the rebellion all over again, like he can recapture something he lost."
Jon set down his wine cup slowly. "You're very cynical for six-year-olds."
"We're observant," Hadrian corrected. "And we're worried. If Father dies—"
"When Father dies," Percy said grimly.
"—the succession gets complicated. We're his heirs, but we're children. The realm won't accept children on the throne without a strong regency. And who's the regent? You? Mother? Uncle Stannis, who everyone knows wants the throne himself?"
"You've thought about this extensively," Jon said quietly.
"We think about everything extensively." Hadrian leaned forward. "Lord Arryn, we're not trying to be difficult. We're not trying to show off or cause problems. We're trying to *think ahead*. Because everyone in this keep is so focused on the war they can win, they're not thinking about the wars that come after."
"What wars come after?"
"The succession war," Percy said. "The war between whoever thinks they should rule and whoever actually *does* rule. The war between families, between regions, between people who all want power and will kill for it."
"You think there will be civil war?" Jon's voice was very serious now.
"We think," Hadrian said carefully, "that the realm is fragile. That Father holds it together through force of personality and reputation. And when he's gone—whenever that happens—there will be people who try to take what they think is theirs."
"Like who?"
*Like Uncle Stannis, who believes in duty and law and thinks he deserves Storm's End. Like the Lannisters, who know their grandchildren should be heirs but can't prove parentage without destroying them. Like every ambitious lord who thinks they could do better than a child-king.*
But they couldn't say that. Not yet. Not without revealing how much they actually knew.
"Like anyone who thinks they can," Hadrian said instead. "That's how power works. When there's a vacuum, someone always tries to fill it."
Jon Arryn studied them in silence for a long moment. Then he sighed—a sound of deep exhaustion.
"You're not wrong," he admitted. "About any of it. Robert and Stannis do resent each other. The succession is fragile. The realm is held together by threads." He paused. "But what would you have me do? I can't fix their relationship. I can't make Robert more responsible. I can't prevent every future disaster."
"You can prepare," Percy said. "Make sure there's a plan for if Father doesn't come back. Make sure there's a regency structure in place. Make sure we—" He gestured to himself and Hadrian. "—are protected and educated so we can actually rule when the time comes."
"You're six years old. You won't rule for over a decade—"
"Unless something happens to Father in this war," Hadrian interrupted. "Then we're kings. Tomorrow. Next week. Whenever. And we need to be ready."
"Kings," Jon repeated. "Plural."
"Twin heirs," Percy said. "Co-rulers, maybe? It's not traditional, but neither are we."
Jon actually laughed at that—short and sharp. "No. You're certainly not traditional." He stood, moving to the window. "Alright. You want me to prepare for disaster? I'll prepare. But you two—" He turned to face them. "—you need to promise me something."
"What?"
"If your father dies. If the worst happens. If you find yourselves suddenly thrust onto the throne—" Jon's expression was grave. "—you'll listen to me. You'll accept guidance. You won't try to rule alone, or make decisions without counsel, or think that being brilliant means you don't need advisors."
"We promise," Hadrian said immediately.
"Do you? Because I've seen clever children grow into arrogant adults who thought they knew everything. And I've seen kingdoms burn because their rulers wouldn't accept help."
"We've died before," Percy said quietly. "We know we don't know everything. We know we need help."
Jon blinked. "What?"
"In our dreams," Hadrian added quickly. "We dream about dying. About failing. About being too arrogant and getting people killed." He met Jon's eyes. "We won't make that mistake here. We'll listen. We'll learn. We'll accept guidance from people who know more than we do."
"Good." Jon returned to his desk, suddenly looking every one of his nearly seventy years. "Then here's my guidance: stay safe while I'm gone. Train with Ser Jaime. Continue your studies. Don't cause your mother excessive worry. And for the love of all the gods, don't antagonize Ser Meryn."
"We hate Ser Meryn," Percy said flatly.
"I know. Everyone hates Ser Meryn. But he's a Kingsguard and you're princes. Which means you have to tolerate him whether you like it or not."
"He's cruel," Hadrian said. "He enjoys hurting people."
"I know that too. But unless he actually does something actionable—something I can prove and punish—my hands are tied." Jon's expression was apologetic. "The Kingsguard serve for life. It's not a position you can simply dismiss someone from."
"You dismissed Ser Barristan from serving the Mad King," Percy pointed out.
"The Mad King was overthrown in a war. That's different." Jon sighed. "Look. I understand your concerns. But Ser Meryn is sworn to protect the royal family. He won't hurt you or your siblings—"
"He hurts servants," Hadrian said quietly. "We've seen the bruises."
Jon's expression darkened. "You're certain?"
"We're observant," Percy repeated. "And we pay attention to things other people ignore. Ser Meryn is cruel to anyone who can't fight back. He's exactly the kind of knight who would terrorize a serving girl and get away with it because she's too afraid to report him."
"I'll look into it," Jon promised. "But discreetly. And in the meantime, you two stay away from him. Understood?"
They nodded, though Hadrian knew they'd both be watching Meryn Trant carefully. If he so much as looked at Myrcella wrong...
"Alright," Jon said, standing. "You're dismissed. Go spend time with your mother. She'll want to see you before the fleet sails."
They left, walking through the corridors in thoughtful silence.
"He's going to die," Percy said finally, quietly enough that only Hadrian could hear.
"Who? Father?"
"Jon Arryn. Not now, but eventually. Soon." Percy's voice was grim. "He's old, Harry. And tired. And carrying the weight of the entire realm on his shoulders. He's going to die, and when he does, everything's going to fall apart."
Hadrian wanted to argue. Wanted to say Jon Arryn was strong, capable, had years left. But looking at the old man's exhausted face, at the weight he carried...
Percy was probably right.
"Then we make sure we're ready," Hadrian said finally. "We learn everything we can from him while he's here. We prepare. We get strong enough to protect ourselves and our family when things fall apart."
"Think we can?"
"We've done harder things."
"Yeah." Percy's smile was grim. "We've died and come back. A little political chaos should be easy by comparison."
They both knew it wouldn't be.
But they'd try anyway.
Because that's what they did.
---
# The Royal Apartments - That Evening
Cersei sat in her solar with all five of her children gathered around her—a rare moment of complete family unity.
Baby Tommen slept in his cradle, golden and perfect. Myrcella sat at her feet, playing with her patched doll. Joffrey lounged in a chair, trying to look bored but clearly pleased to have his mother's attention. And Hadrian and Percy stood by the window, watching the sunset paint the bay in shades of blood and gold.
"Your father leaves in three days," Cersei said, her voice carefully neutral. "He goes to war against the ironborn. Lord Arryn goes with him. Ser Barristan as well."
"And Uncle Stannis," Myrcella added. "And Uncle Renly's going too, isn't he?"
"No. Renly stays at Storm's End. He's too young for war." Cersei's hands were folded in her lap, perfectly composed. "But yes, your uncles go. And many lords of the realm."
"Will Father die?" Joffrey asked, and there was something calculating in his voice. Like he was measuring the advantages of patricide.
"No," Cersei said sharply. "Your father is the greatest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms. He won't die in some minor rebellion against fish-worshippers."
"But he could," Hadrian said quietly, turning from the window. "War is unpredictable. People die. Even great warriors."
Cersei's expression flickered—fear, quickly buried. "Your father will be fine. He has Ser Barristan with him. And Lord Arryn. And an entire fleet."
"But if he doesn't come back," Percy pressed, "what happens to us?"
"Nothing happens to you. You're my sons. Princes of the realm. You'll be protected and cared for—"
"We'll be kings," Hadrian interrupted. "If Father dies, we inherit. Both of us, as twin heirs."
The room went very quiet.
Cersei studied her oldest sons with an expression that was part pride, part fear, part something Hadrian couldn't identify.
"Yes," she said finally. "If your father dies—which he won't—you would inherit. You're his legitimate sons. The succession is clear."
"I'm older," Joffrey said suddenly, sitting up straight. "I should be king if—"
"You're four years old and born after your brothers," Cersei said firmly. "The succession goes: Hadrian first, as the eldest twin. Perseus second. Then you, Joffrey. Those are the laws of inheritance."
Joffrey's face went red. "But I'm—"
"You're fourth in line to the throne," Cersei continued, her voice brooking no argument. "After your brothers and then—theoretically—after Tommen, though he's so young it hardly matters. This is not a discussion, Joffrey. This is law."
"Stupid law," Joffrey muttered.
"Perhaps. But law nonetheless." Cersei turned her attention back to Hadrian and Percy. "Your father will return. This is not a real war—it's a rebellion. A nuisance. He'll crush the ironborn, secure the realm, and come home. Nothing will change."
*Everything will change*, Hadrian thought but didn't say. *Father's going to war, Lord Arryn's going to war, Uncle Stannis is going to war. And we're being left here with Mother and Uncle Jaime and Ser Meryn fucking Trant. Everything's already changing.*
"Who watches over us while Father's gone?" Percy asked. "Who protects the family?"
"Ser Jaime," Cersei said immediately. "And Ser Meryn. Two of the finest knights in the realm."
Hadrian saw Percy's jaw clench. Neither of them trusted Meryn Trant. And Jaime was capable, yes, but he was one man. If something happened—if assassins came, if there was an uprising, if literally anything went wrong—he couldn't be everywhere at once.
"I don't like Ser Meryn," Myrcella said in her small voice. "He's scary."
"He's a knight," Cersei said, though her tone suggested she didn't entirely disagree. "He serves your father. He protects our family."
"He's mean to the servants," Myrcella insisted. "I saw him hit one of the maids. Made her cry."
Cersei's expression went cold. "When did you see this?"
"Last week. She spilled wine on his cloak and he hit her. Hard. Made her bleed."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Myrcella looked down at her doll. "She asked me not to. Said she'd get in more trouble if I told."
Cersei stood abruptly, her composure cracking. "That's unacceptable. Ser Meryn is supposed to protect people, not terrorize them." She moved to the door, yanked it open. "You! Fetch Ser Jaime. Now."
The guard outside scrambled to obey.
Hadrian and Percy exchanged glances. This was escalating faster than they'd expected.
Jaime arrived within minutes, still in his Kingsguard whites, his expression curious. "Your Grace? You sent for me?"
"Close the door," Cersei ordered.
He did, his eyes tracking to the children—all of them watching with varying degrees of interest and concern.
"Myrcella says she saw Ser Meryn strike a servant," Cersei said without preamble. "That he made her bleed. Is this true?"
Jaime's expression went carefully neutral. "I wasn't present for the incident. But it wouldn't surprise me. Meryn has a reputation for... harshness."
"Harshness. That's a generous description." Cersei's voice was ice. "He's a member of the Kingsguard. He's supposed to exemplify honor and chivalry. Striking defenseless servants is neither."
"I agree. But as Lord Commander Barristan is about to leave for war, and I'm the only other senior Kingsguard remaining, I'm not sure what you want me to do about it."
"Watch him," Cersei said firmly. "Keep him away from my children. If he so much as raises his voice in their presence, I want to know about it."
"Of course." Jaime's eyes tracked to Hadrian and Percy. "Have the princes had issues with Ser Meryn?"
"We don't trust him," Hadrian said bluntly. "He's cruel. And cruel people do cruel things when they think no one's watching."
"Harsh but fair assessment." Jaime moved to stand beside Cersei, his hand resting on his sword hilt. "I'll keep an eye on him. But Your Grace, once the King leaves, Meryn and I are the only Kingsguard here. If something happens—if there's a real threat—I can't be in three places at once."
"Then we hire more guards," Cersei said. "City Watch. Personal retainers. I want this keep secure."
"The King won't approve the expense—"
"The King is leaving for war and will be in no position to complain about expenses." Cersei's smile was sharp. "Make the arrangements, Ser Jaime. I want fifty additional guards. Loyal men. Competent men."
"As you command, Your Grace."
Jaime bowed and left, though not before shooting one more concerned glance at the children.
Cersei returned to her chair, her composure restored but her eyes still cold.
"You'll all stay in the Red Keep while your father's gone," she announced. "No trips to the city. No wandering the grounds alone. You go nowhere without guards."
"But—" Joffrey started.
"No arguments. This is not a request—it's an order." Cersei's voice was final. "The realm is at war. There may be sympathizers, opportunists, people who see the King's absence as an opportunity. I won't risk any of you."
"We can protect ourselves," Percy said. "We train every day. We're not helpless."
"You're six years old," Cersei said, though her tone was more gentle now. "You're skilled, yes. Remarkably skilled. But you're still children. And children need protection, no matter how clever they are."
Hadrian wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that he'd fought Death Eaters at seventeen, that Percy had held off Titans at sixteen, that they'd both died in combat and been reborn and were perfectly capable of handling themselves.
But he couldn't say any of that. So he just nodded.
"As you say, Mother."
"Good." Cersei looked at all five of her children—her precious, impossible, complicated children—with an expression that was fierce love mixed with determination. "I will keep you safe. All of you. Whatever it takes. Do you understand?"
They understood. They understood that their mother loved them with a ferocity that would burn the world if necessary. That she'd lie, cheat, kill, destroy anyone and anything that threatened her children.
It should have been comforting. Instead, it was terrifying.
Because that kind of love didn't accept limits. Didn't accept consequences. Didn't accept *no*.
And when that love was directed at protecting children who were built on lies...
Well. That's how kingdoms burned.
---
# Three Days Later - The Royal Harbor
The fleet was magnificent.
Over two hundred warships crowded the harbor, their sails bearing the sigils of a dozen great houses. Baratheon stags, Tyrell roses, Lannister lions, Redwyne grapes, Hightower towers—all the strength of the realm gathered to crush a rebellion.
The morning was bright and cold, the wind carrying the salt-smell of the sea. Sailors shouted, loading final supplies. Knights checked their armor one last time. Lords conferred in tight knots, making last-minute plans.
And on the dock, the royal family gathered to see the King off to war.
Robert stood resplendent in black and gold, his warhammer strapped to his back, looking more alive than Hadrian had ever seen him. This was what the King was made for—war, battle, the simple clarity of violence. No politics, no ruling, no disappointing wife or children. Just enemies to crush and glory to win.
Beside him, Cersei stood in crimson and gold, her face a mask of proper royal concern. But Hadrian saw the calculation in her eyes, the relief that Robert was leaving, mixed with genuine fear that he might not return and complicate everything.
Jon Arryn stood in gray, looking every one of his years, but determined. Ser Barristan was already armored, white cloak over steel, ready for war. Stannis Baratheon looked grim and focused, his jaw set in that perpetual expression of disapproval.
And the children—all five of them—stood in a careful line, dressed in their finest, looking appropriately sad at Father's departure.
"Well," Robert said, his voice booming across the dock. "I'm off then. To war! To victory! To crushing these fish-fucking ironborn and reminding them why you don't steal from the Crown!"
A cheer went up from the assembled sailors and soldiers.
Robert turned to Cersei, and for just a moment, something complicated passed between them. Not love—that had died long ago, if it had ever existed. But acknowledgment. Shared history. The weight of vows made and half-kept.
"Take care of the realm," Robert said. "And the children. Try not to let King's Landing burn down while I'm gone."
"I'll do my best, Your Grace." Cersei's voice was perfectly neutral.
Robert turned to the children next. He looked at them—really looked at them—perhaps for the first time in months.
Joffrey stood straight, golden hair shining in the sun, trying to look princely. Robert's eyes passed over him barely registering.
Myrcella clutched her patched doll, her lower lip trembling. Robert smiled at her briefly—she was pretty, uncomplicated, easy to understand in a way his sons weren't.
Tommen was with the wet nurse, too young to be presented. Robert had probably already forgotten he existed.
Then his eyes found Hadrian and Percy.
The twins stood side by side, dark-haired and serious, watching their father with careful attention.
"You two," Robert said, and something shifted in his voice. "My heirs. My sons."
He crouched down—awkwardly, because Robert Baratheon had never been comfortable at a child's level—and put one massive hand on each of their shoulders.
"You're good boys," he said, and for once he seemed genuine. "Smart. Strong. Better than I was at your age." He paused. "Better than I am now, probably. You'll be—you'll be fine kings. When it's your time. Better than me."
"Father—" Hadrian started.
"Let me finish." Robert's grip tightened slightly. "I'm not good at this. At being a father. At being here. I know that. You know that. Everyone knows that." His eyes—blue like Percy's but emptier, sadder—moved between them. "But I want you to know... I'm proud of you. Both of you. You're what I should have been. What the realm needs."
Then he stood, abruptly, the moment broken. Back to booming cheer. "Right! Enough sentiment! We have a war to win!"
He strode toward his ship—the *Sea Stag*, his personal flagship—without looking back.
Jon Arryn paused before following. He approached Hadrian and Percy, crouching down like Robert had but with more comfort, more genuine care.
"Be good," he said quietly. "Listen to your mother. Train with Ser Jaime. Study hard. And remember—you're princes, but you're also children. Don't forget how to be children, even in a place like this."
"We'll try," Hadrian promised.
"I know you will." Jon smiled—sad and tired and fond. "I'll see you in a few months, when this foolishness is over. And you can tell me all about what you learned while I was gone."
Then he too was moving toward the ships, his gray robes disappearing into the crowd of lords and knights.
Ser Barristan was last. He approached the twins with that calm, dignified manner that made him seem ageless.
"Continue your training," he said simply. "Practice your forms. Work with Ser Jaime. And stay safe." His expression softened slightly. "You're remarkable boys. The realm is lucky to have you."
"The realm doesn't know we exist," Percy muttered.
"Not yet. But they will. Someday." Barristan straightened, his hand going to his sword hilt. "Someday, you'll be men. Kings. And on that day, I hope to see you ruling with wisdom and honor. Everything your father should have been."
Then he was gone too, white cloak streaming behind him as he boarded his ship.
The fleet began to move. Sails unfurled, oars dipped into the water. The massive collection of warships began the slow process of leaving harbor, heading for the Sunset Sea and war.
Hadrian and Percy stood on the dock with their mother and siblings, watching the fleet disappear into the morning sun.
"They're not coming back," Percy said quietly, too quiet for anyone but Hadrian to hear.
"Father will come back," Hadrian replied. "He's too stubborn to die in some minor rebellion."
"I didn't say he wouldn't come back. I said they won't." Percy's voice was grim. "Something's changed. Something's wrong. I can feel it."
Hadrian wanted to dismiss it as paranoia. But Percy had always had good instincts—in both lives. If he felt something was wrong...
"We'll be ready," Hadrian said finally. "Whatever comes. We'll be ready."
Behind them, Cersei gathered her children. "Come. Back to the keep. We have much to do."
They followed her through the streets of King's Landing, surrounded by guards, watched by curious crowds. The King had gone to war. The Queen was in charge now. And five royal children walked through the city like pieces on a board, unaware of the game being played around them.
Except Hadrian and Percy were aware. Too aware. They saw the looks, heard the whispers, felt the weight of expectations and dangers closing in.
Three days ago, they'd been princes with an absent father and too much freedom. Now they were heirs to a throne, potentially, if the war went badly.
Everything had changed.
And winter, always, was still coming.
---
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